In the Moon Brushed Hours of Evening
by Rosawyn
Summary: "Jon is always better than Pyp; Jon is better than most people, not just here in the frozen and forgotten end of the world, but most people everywhere.  Jon is power and grace and honour and passion.  And how could Pyp help but be drawn to that?"


**In the Moon-Brushed Hours of Evening**

**A/N: So for some reason I wanted to write something disturbing and twisted,** **something decidedly not "cute" or "fluffy," and for some reason that turned out to be a sort of slash story. :/ So I guess I have to apologize to everyone: slash fans and non-slash fans alike. (But then, did George R. R. Martin ever apologize for Loras/Renly or Jamie/Cersei? I doubt it.) The pairings, in case you would rather know before actually reading as far as the first sentence, are one-sided Pyp/Jon and an sort of suggested/implied Jon/Sam. So if you're still interested, please read on and I hope you all at least sort of hate it, because if you actually **_**like**_** it, you must be some sort of sick and cruel person.**

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><p>Pyp isn't even sure when it started, maybe when Sam first arrived and he saw the way Jon's eyes <em>lingered<em> on Sam in a way he'd never before seen them linger. But maybe—_likely_—it was before that, when Jon so easily bested him without even trying, and he was hurt and bloody and humiliated, but at the same time he knew Jon could have made it so much worse, but didn't, and part of him told him he should be thankful, but part of him just wished Jon would hurt him more.

And then Jon offered to train him, to help him, to make him a better fighter, and that just made it worse. Because Jon is always better than Pyp; Jon is better than most people, not just here in the frozen and forgotten end of the world, but most people _everywhere_. Jon is power and grace and honour and passion. And how could Pyp help but be drawn to that? Jon is beautiful, like blue-black waves crashing against the rocks on a night of storms, like the mournful song of a nightingale in the moon-brushed hours of evening, like a proud direwolf stalking his prey with controlled grace and cold arrogance.

And of course Sam in his flurry of fear and falling and tears was worse than Pyp, _far_ worse than Pyp, and yet Sam was who Jon _noticed_, who Jon chose to _protect_—what had Sam ever done to deserve a noble knight charging to his rescue? It was insane, but Pyp envied Sam: useless, clumsy, cowardly Sam. And Pyp would sometimes wish he could _be_ Sam just so Jon's eyes would be on him, so he could be the one making Jon laugh, the cause of those far too rare and far too wonderful smiles. Pyp knows it's stupid; he knows it's impossible, was _always_ impossible, but in his worst moments when he wonders if the cold has frozen all possibility of reason from his brain, he imagines—wishes—that Jon had been the lord who liked so much to hear him sing; because Jon is young and Jon has glossy black curls and deep soulful eyes, and Jon is _kind_, and maybe he really wouldn't have minded if it had been Jon. It's not like he'll ever have a chance with any girls, not now. But it's also not like he'd ever have a chance with Jon. No, not now that Sam's here.

Sam, who knows he's weak and cowardly and entirely horrible _in every way that should count for anything_ here, is arrogant—arrogant because he knows he's _special_, that he owns—_possesses_—Jon in ways no one else ever can, knows he is _safe_, because he has Jon and Jon's bloody direwolf poised and ready to make anyone suffer unspeakable agony if they so much as look at him wrong. Pyp sees the gleeful pride in Sam's little piggy eyes, and hates him for it. Hates Sam for being so terribly pathetic, because _pathetic_ is apparently what Jon likes, and Sam has outdone everyone in that regard, and Pyp hates Sam because Sam has made Pyp envy him, and that's so ridiculous it would be laughable if it wasn't so sad. And Pyp hates Jon for choosing Sam over him (which is _stupid_, because it's not like Jon ever even _considered_ Pyp), but more for just being so beautiful and noble and powerful and gentle—because if Jon had just been a bit more _normal_, Pyp knows he never would have to feel this way.

If Jon were just a bit more normal, Pyp could feel like they were friends the way any two _normal_ men were friends, but Jon is _special_, and Pyp is far too ordinary. If Pyp were even as weak and pathetic as Sam, at least he would stand out, and Jon would notice him (without needing a terribly rich and terribly deformed little man to convince him that he is worthy of any consideration). But Pyp is ordinary, and no one like _Jon_ notices ordinary.

And it's not like he can _tell_ anyone: Grenn wouldn't—_couldn't_—understand. Of course telling Jon is impossible. The only one who might possibly begin to understand is Sam, but he could never tell Sam—if Sam knew, even guessed, how Pyp _envied_ him, that would make Sam's terrible arrogance all the worse.

And Jon is his friend, and Sam is too, and Pyp knows he should be _happy_ that Sam makes Jon happy, that Jon makes Sam happy, Sam and Jon make _each other_ happy, because Jon especially deserves to be happy…but when Pyp sees Jon with Sam, laughing and smiling—sees the powerful _warmth_ between them—he feels something tight and twisting _pulling_ in his chest—a terrible _longing_, and he knows if it tugged any harder, it would tear something inside him, and he doesn't know what might happen to him then…but likely no one would notice.

On cold, cold nights at the Wall, Pyp lies awake wishing the ice would seep in and freeze every rebellious part of his being, take it all away and leave him numb, because Pyp never wanted to feel any of this: everything is horrible, and it all hurts.


End file.
